Page 22 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

End This Thing

Dakota

Two weeks later.

W e’d long lost count of the score. But in an off-season scrimmage, the score doesn’t really matter, because everyone’s going at half, or even quarter effort.

Until the very end of scrimmage, that is, when the announcement is finally shouted:

“Next goal wins.”

Then the intensity amps up.

I was on the ice when the other team had the puck in our zone.

Tank coasted down low and played keep away with our defense, shielding the puck with his huge frame and ass.

He might be big and slow, but there’s no one in the NHL better at protecting the puck than him—you just can’t move a man that size off the puck.

But after spending the past two weeks doing nothing else but Parker’s grueling two-a-days, and hearing my name thrown around in trade rumors, I was bored and pissed enough that I decided to take a friendly run at the big boy.

With Tank stiff-arming a d-man as he circled the boards, I came flying in from the other direction to intercept him behind the net.

“Heads up!” the bench shouted, seeing the hit coming.

Tank braced for impact right as I launched my body into him like a missile.

I smashed into Tank like a speeding car crashing into a brick wall, and two big bodies collided with a thud, a kinetic force rippling outward.

The wind was knocked right out of me, and my lungs collapsed with a guttural oof .

For a second, it looked like I’d taken the worst of the hit, as Tank merely bounced off me—but then his feet began to slip on the ice, his skates treading at the ice faster and faster in a desperate attempt to regain his footing.

And then it happened.

The big man toppled over, falling to the ice like a redwood, the rink practically shaking.

The boys on the bench shouted, their voices echoing in the empty rink with a mix of shock and amusement.

“Holy fuck!”

“I’ve never seen Tank go down like that before!”

“Dak steamrolled him!”

Yeah, yeah. Everyone was shocked and impressed, and I should be proud of myself for doing the impossible. Yadda yadda. But the thing about hitting is, it can be a double-edged sword. It doesn’t just hurt the guy getting hit—it often hurts the guy making the hit, too.

I tried not to let the pain show, but I coasted back to the bench, keeled over and teeth gritted in pain.

Tank chased me back to the bench, giving me a shove from behind. “Hey! Take it easy, you fucking hard-o!” Tank yelled, his ego bruised. “It’s an off-season scrimmage!”

I climbed over the boards and slouched on the bench, unable to breathe with my diaphragm constricted.

Back on the other bench, Tank leaned over the boards and continued to bark at me. “Why are you trying to take my head off, bud? I just got back from Acapulco last fucking night! You’re gonna hurt somebody throwing your weight around like that, asshole!”

Rust, sitting next to me on the bench, tugged on my jersey.

“Ignore his whining. He’s not used to getting tagged,” the cagey veteran said, and gave me a wry smile.

“But that’s the style of hockey you’re capable of playing, Dak.

You don’t have to be the flashy goal scorer your dad was, with all the fanciest fucking dekes up your sleeve.

Just go hard to the net. Use that big frame of yours.

Lean on guys. Light ‘em up every now and then so they respect and fear you. Do all that, and you’ve got a roster spot on thirty-two teams in the NHL, guaranteed. ”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” I said, still gasping for breath.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Annoyed, I slammed my stick against the boards. “You see what everyone’s saying about me?”

I was the villain in hockey media today.

Not just Vegas Sin media, mind you. The entire league.

Over the past two weeks, every hockey writer in America seemed to come out with an article about how spoiled-ass Dakota Easton was everything that was wrong with modern hockey: a selfish, overpaid, showboating, entitled brat who only made it to the NHL because of nepotism.

Rust shrugged unsympathetically. “Better get used to it, or it’s going to be a real long summer for you. Until next season starts, all anyone remembers is your last game.”

I sighed. “Great.”

Truth was? So far, I’d done everything Killer and Mr. Capuano wanted me to do.

And I felt like a soulless robot because of it.

Every day was the same: wake up early, go to the gym, eat a huge lunch, go back to the gym, eat a huge dinner.

By seven o’clock, I was so damned worn out, I didn’t have the energy to do anything but hit the sack.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I’d barely hung out with any of my friends.

I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol or been to any bars or clubs. I’d even stayed away from chicks.

Which—by the way—can I just take a moment to give myself a little pat on the back for that last one?

Seriously, I deserve some high praise for not going absolutely nuts on the women in this town.

Because for some reason, over the past two weeks, every dime piece in Las Vegas has come crawling out of the woodwork.

It must be my growing reputation as hockey’s “bad boy” or something—because I swear, everywhere I go, chicks are trying to seduce me.

And I’m talking hot babes, that look like they’re dressed for the club, even though we’re shopping at Whole Foods on a Monday morning.

“Dakoooooooota!” A pair of girls were parked behind the bench, jumping around and banging on the glass, their tits jiggling in their low-cut shirts. They’d been there all scrimmage long. And every time I came back to the bench, they started screaming my name to get my attention.

See? See what I’m talking about?

The fact these girls even showed up today is pretty remarkable, considering these scrimmages aren’t sanctioned by the team—per Union rules, the team can’t run any sort of practice or training in the off-season.

Now, us players can get together and have a practice or scrimmage all we want, but it has to be totally optional, and the team can’t run it or observe it in any kind of official capacity.

My point is, because of the optional nature of these skates, very few people even know we’re having them. Only the most die-hard fans hear about them and bother showing up to our practice facility.

The banging on the glass got Brett’s attention. He turned around, shooting a glance at the chicks behind us.

“Dude, what’s with your fan club?” Brett asked. He was a little more tanned than the last time I saw him; he and McKayla, avid hikers, had just gotten back from the mountains for one of their summer excursions.

“Dunno.” I shrugged, my attention on the action on the ice instead. “Been like that all summer.”

“Dakooooota! Hey!” The girls continued to cheer. “We love you!!!!”

“Do you wanna give them your number or anything?” Brett asked curiously. “’Cause damn. Those girls are pretty fine.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

“ No? ” His eyes widened with shock. “Why not?”

“I promised I wouldn’t,” I snarled. “So I’m not going to.”

“Jeez. Okay,” he said with a shrug.

I blew out a heavy breath. I felt bad for acting like a dick, but … I couldn’t tell Showtime the truth, or he’d never let me hear the end of it.

But the truth was …?

I dunno.

I guess I was still a little bent out of shape.

And no, I don’t wanna say why.

…

Ugh, fine.

Yeah, because of Ottavia, okay.

Obviously, we couldn’t have any kind of future because of who her dad was.

But I still couldn’t believe she lied to me about having a boyfriend.

I didn’t know why it stung so bad—it’d never stopped me before.

And I’d only known Ottavia for a day, really.

But I dunno. I guess I thought things were going well—like we were actually getting to know each other pretty quick?

Because normally, when I’m with a girl, we’ll flirt and stuff, but we’re never actually learning about each other.

With Ottavia, it felt so easy and fun—it just sort of happened naturally, without either of us forcing it.

And something inside me started to click, like, oh, this is how it’s supposed to be.

I had so much fun just being around her and talking to her.

Obviously, I’m not saying I wanted to marry her or anything—way too soon for that, heh—but she was the kind of sweet, wholesome girl that can make any guy, even a guy like me, start to think: Man, maybe I could actually settle down someday?

Until her boyfriend burst through the door, that is. And all that went up in a puff of smoke.

Chicks, man. They’re really all the same.

I tutted, rolling my eyes with disgust.

Brett and I had gone silent, our heads turning left and right as we tracked the action on the ice.

During a break in the action, I cleared my throat and asked, trying to sound casual, “So, now that you’re back from vacation, how’s BarDown Brewery doing?”

“Good, man. Got a few new beers out, and sales have been through the fucking roof. Honestly, my only regret is that I didn’t do this a long time ago.” He flashed a coy grin at me. “Why? You thinking about starting a biz?”

“Hell no.” I shook my head. “Just curious, is all.”

We went quiet again as play resumed.

What I really wanted to know was if Ottavia ever showed up to work as a hostess.

I was pretty confident the answer would be no.

Although I’d introduced Brett and Ottavia, they never got to exchange information, and neither one had said a word about it to me since.

Sure, Brett was living in a cabin in the Rocky Mountains until a few days ago, but he would’ve said something if she’d showed up, right?

And Ottavia was a billionaire heiress. There’s no way she actually wanted to work a peasant job.

She probably liked the idea of it, sure—but to actually go through with it? Nah.

But still. I couldn’t let it go. I was dying to know. I had to ask.